Duke of Midnight (Maiden Lane #6)(42)

If she could only find a way.

She quickened her pace just enough that she and Phoebe began to overtake the trio in front of them. They were almost at the abbey ruins now—a row of gray stone arches that held up empty sky.

“Do you know,” she said to Phoebe as they got within earshot of the three, “I met another such cold man the other day. The Ghost of St. Giles struck me as a man with a heart like an icicle. Very like your brother, in point of fact. I’m surprised that the comparison has never been made before, for they are quite similar. Well, nearly. The duke seems rather cowardly next to the Ghost of St. Giles.”

Wakefield’s back stiffened in front of them.

“Artemis…,” Phoebe began, her voice both puzzled and horrified.

“Ah! Here we are, then,” Miss Picklewood boomed.

Artemis turned to find Miss Picklewood right behind them. Her eyes narrowed. The lady moved very quietly for her age.

“Now, Your Grace,” Miss Picklewood said brightly, speaking to Scarborough. “I believe I once overheard you telling my dear cousin, the late duchess, some terribly interesting ghost stories about the abbey. Perhaps you’ll refresh my memory.”

“Your memory, Miss Picklewood,” Scarborough said, bowing gallantly, “is as sharp as a razor.”

“Oh, but do tell us a story,” Penelope said, clapping her hands.

“Very well, but my tale is a long one, my lady,” the duke said. He drew out a large handkerchief from a pocket and dusted off one of the big tumbled stones that must have at one time made up the abbey’s walls. He laid the square of linen down and gestured. “Please. Take a seat.”

All the ladies found places to sit—save Artemis, who preferred to stand—and the footmen who had trailed the party began serving wine and minuscule cakes pulled from wicker baskets.

“Now then,” Scarborough began, assuming a dramatic pose—feet braced wide apart, one hand comfortably tucked between the buttons of his waistcoat, his other hand gesturing toward the ruins. “Once this was a grand and mighty abbey, erected and inhabited by monks who had taken a vow of silence…”

Artemis paid little attention to Scarborough’s words. She watched the assembled group dispassionately, and then began slowly moving around the outer edge of the guests. She slipped behind Mrs. Jellett, paused a moment, then moved again. Her object was to circle around to where Wakefield stood beside Penelope.

“… and when the maiden woke up, she was served a most wonderful meal by the monks, but of course none of them spoke because they’d all taken their vow of silence…”

Artemis glanced down to maneuver around a crumbling stone with its base obscured by weeds, which was why she didn’t see him until it was too late.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Wakefield growled in her ear. He clamped his hand on her upper arm.

Wisely, she kept silent.

He drew her toward where part of the wall still stood. They were at the back of the group and thus few noticed them. Miss Picklewood raised her head, a bit like a guard dog with its hackles high, but Wakefield shot her a rather filthy look.

And then they were out of sight of the others.

But the duke didn’t stop. He hustled her through the ruins and into the stand of trees that edged one side of the abbey. Only when they were sheltered by the cool branches of the great trees, did he stop.

“What”—he turned and seized both her arms—“has gotten into you?”

“He’s dying,” she whispered furiously, trembling within his grasp. “I didn’t receive the letter until almost noon—because Penelope didn’t think it important enough to give it to me earlier. Apollo is lying in that hellhole dying.”

His jaw set as he searched her face. “I can have a carriage readied for you to return to London within the hour. If the roads are—”

She slapped him, quick and hard.

His head turned slightly with the blow, but other than that his only reaction was the narrowing of his eyes.

Her chest was heaving as if she were running. “No! You must go to London. You must get him out. You must save my brother because if you don’t, I swear upon everything I hold holy that I’ll ruin both you and your illustrious name. I’ll—”

“Little bitch,” he breathed, his face turned fiery red, and he slammed his mouth against hers.

There was no softness in him. He claimed her lips like a marauder: hard and angry. If she’d once thought him cold as ice, well, that ice was burned away now by the fire of his rage. He shoved his tongue into her mouth, his breath a hot exhalation against her cheek. He tasted of wine and power, and something within her trembled in answer. His chest was pressed to her, and each frantic breath she took shoved her breasts into his waistcoat. He wasn’t gentle and he wasn’t at all romantic, and despite that she almost lost her way. Almost found herself wandering in the wildness of his lips. In the passion of his anger. She almost forgot everything.

She remembered the brother who needed her just in time.

She pulled back, gasping, trying to find words as his hands tightened, preventing her from escaping entirely.

He ducked his head to look her in the eye. “I don’t have to do anything you order me to do, Miss Greaves. I am a duke, not your personal lapdog.”

“And here, now, I am Artemis, not Miss Greaves,” she blazed. “You’ll do as I say because if you don’t I’ll make sure you’re the laughingstock of London. That you’re banished from England forever.”